


Paper Windows (entire work)

by Guu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:30:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2766443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guu/pseuds/Guu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of moments in Cas and Dean's post-Apocalyptic life, and the ratty little apartment they share in a city full of inoffensive unknowns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Less than Ideal

**Author's Note:**

> This is the complete work featuring the different chapters of Paper Windows I've been posting separately since April. Every new chapter is going to be added here.
> 
> This story is still a work in progress!
> 
> The story was supposed to work as several stand-alones in a shared universe, but somewhere in the middle of it it became a cohesive story with an actual plot, hence the decision to put it all together. Anyway, I'll update this once it's complete. Enjoy!!
> 
> (Acknowledgements for each chapter before chapter 10, in their own separate posts)

Dean is almost entirely sure Cas' birthday is next week. Or at least what they believe to be Cas' birthday. Neither of them is very certain. 

Neither cares very much, really. Dean can't recall a year in which anything more that a "Hey, wasn't your birthday yesterday?" was exchanged.

"Congratulations, another year closer to death," Dean said that first year, mouth around a warm bottle of beer. Cas had dismissed him with a flippant hand gesture. He never seemed to get Dean's sense of humor anyway. Never laughed, open mouthed and delirious, the way he did when he saw something funny on TV.

"Every day is another day closer to death, Dean." 

 _That had been the end of the whole birthday shebang_ , Dean thinks. Cas couldn't care less about mundane human things, such as celebrating the completion of another loop around the sun, and Dean had never been really partial to birthdays anyway. And he secretly thinks that Cas still resents having things such as  _birthdays_  now. And an actual age, and a social security number.

 _Yes, that is probably it_ , he ponders, watching a young couple waiting in line at his next stop. They're holding hands. It's six in the morning and they look like they're coming from the hotel just half a block away from the bus stop. Perhaps some other time, Dean might have smirked at them. Winked even. Now the pulls the bus to a stop and opens the door for them, waits until they're seated before he gets going again. It's cold and humid outside and his knee aches when he pushes the gas pedal, a tell tale that it's going to rain this afternoon.

It's not like Cas resents being  _human_. He mostly hates the fact that he ages now. That his head hurts when he eats too much and that his eyes can't focus as well as they used to. He complains loudly about cold feet and clogged sinuses, and holds glaring contests with the growing stains in the yellowing ceiling of their ratty apartment. But he hums contently when he's trying a new brew of tea, and he sighs and moans when Dean feels generous enough to rub his feet. Dean's not sure if they are happy, but they are  _content_.

And content is a lot more than he ever thought they would get.

\---

Dean's last round finishes at seven thirty, and he walks home, feeling the dampness settling into his bones. He hates the mid-season terribly, and he suddenly misses his bed: the warmth of their old sheets and their new duvet, the only real luxury they could afford. There's only another eight blocks or so to go, so he hurries his steps, stops at the drugstore across the hospital to get a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of milk. The florist opens at seven forty-five and he wonders if he should get something for Cas, something to combat the smell of mold and dirt and concrete their bedroom always stinks of. It's seven forty-three. His knee hurts.

He lights a cigarette and waits in the cold.

\---

Cas is already up when he gets home. Dean drops the flowers on the kitchen counter, puts the milk in the fridge and slowly peels all of his layers off, minding the dull ache on his right leg. He wants nothing more than to get into bed and wrap himself around Cas, maybe snore against the mole on his chest, but Cas is standing still against the rail on the tiny balcony, eyes closed and face turned towards the wind.

"Mrs. Park called," Cas says after a long silence, without looking at Dean. Dean eyes their bed, wariness already making its way into his chest.

"Steve can't make it today, so I'm taking the morning shift."

"Okay", says Dean, dropping his boots and pants over the side of their bed. He wishes Cas would close the balcony door, wishes he'd skip the morning shift and come into bed as well.

"Isn't it funny? That I have a co-worker named Steve?" 

"Hilarious."

The bed is cold and Dean shivers when he reaches for the duvet with bare feet. Cas gives him a funny look from the balcony. He isn't sure if Dean actually finds what he said hilarious, and that is kind of hilarious by itself.

"Isn't it your birthday next week?" Dean calls, not really looking at Cas, but at the stain on the ceiling, the same one Cas glares at every night. It's shaped like a bunny, or some sort of rat. "We should do something this time."

Cas finally closes the glass door with a shrug, draws the curtains, and walks towards the bed. He kisses Dean on the cheek: a soft, careful thing, and goes to grab his coat. Dean falls asleep shortly after that.

He wakes up at midday to the sweet smell of jasmine, feeling tired but warm.

There are flowers on his night stand, a narrow patch of light reflecting brightly over the plastic cup that contains them. Cas' very own brand of romanticism.

Dean rubs his knee, turns around and faces the empty side of his bed. Their bed.

He's alone. He will be all day.

He sighs and goes back to sleep.

\------


	2. This Gloom that Set upon Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiels existence is full of repetition these days. When it rains, he longs for nothing more than to be home.

Cas' days often start with repetition. He wakes up at eleven, brushes his teeth, makes coffee, gets dressed, combs his hair when possible. Goes to work.

He takes a bus when it rains, often wondering if his designated driver has ever talked to Dean, or perhaps driven the same bus that Dean does. There are so many little things humans do that they don't know about others also doing. They cross paths with people who are connected to them in various ways, and never notice that their neighbour of three years is the same man running next to them at the gym, or that the lady on the street who they just whistled at is the same lady teaching maths to their cousin's kids.

Castiel may not believe in fate anymore, but he sure does like to watch it unfurl. He joins the dots when he can, trying to notice the little things humanity often takes for granted. He pays attention. He knows where to look.

The bus drive is barely five minutes long, and he gets to the supermarket ten minutes before his shift starts. The rain is light, and he walks under ledges and trees, feeling the occasional raindrop kiss his face. He doesn't mind the cold too much, but the water makes him uneasy. He doesn't like the heavy rain.

Mrs. Park is sitting at the cash register when he arrives. She's arguing about something or other with the same old customer that comes every other Friday to buy cabbage and onions, and to complain about the kimchi's price. Steve is waiting for Castiel in the staff room, eager to take his break: he has a strong addiction to tobacco and has gone a few hours without it. Castiel supposes he should understand; he has seen Dean stand dreadfully in their tiny balcony, defying the elements and the harsh winter weather to suck on his daily dose of nicotine. _Necessity is a powerful thing_ , Castiel thinks. He has seen it draw the worst out of men and gods alike.

"Hey, Cas," Steve says, amicably patting Castiel's back. Castiel frowns. He can't seem to get the hang of or the point of casual contact. He understands humanity in a general, wide sense, the way one understands how a bee hive works. He understands how a hand on the shoulder could indicate support, or how an embrace can demonstrate intimacy. Kisses, fervent touches, a light caress to show concern: Dean has taught him all of those. The finer points of both humanity and touch, however, elude him. 

"Steve," Castiel says, with a nod.

\--

Castiel's job is all about repetition, much as his mortal life has turned to be. Clean the fridges, clean the floor. Mop the break room. Replace the expired cans of pre-packaged food. He enjoys re-stocking the products the most. His head is often a noisy mess, and the mindlessness of the job allows him to put his jumbled thoughts in place.

Mostly, he thinks about Dean. Not because he misses him—if anything, he appreciates the hours they spend apart—but because, after all these years, Dean mesmerizes him still. Cas finds it difficult to think about Dean when in his presence, where all Cas can do is _feel_.

Feeling is overwhelming enough, and Cas needs to think. He's a strategist at heart. This is how he deals. God is in the details, and Cas used to be so vast, used to be so big.

\--

It's pouring by the time Castiel's shift ends, and he eyes the street warily. The air smells of wet dirt and humidity. Mrs. Park's daughter offers him a ride home, and for a moment Castiel is blinded by the familiar memory of leather against his back, of grease and oil, and of the beloved seats of a black car. He declines.

Instead, he runs all the way home. Gets water on his pants, his hair, his socks. It feels like a baptism of sorts. Castiel, the human. Castiel, the mortal. A new card carrying member of the Original Sin club.

Castiel runs through streets and roads with a piece of newspaper over his head, runs through green traffic lights.

He has a _home_ to run to now.

\--

"Hey there, Waterworld."

Dean is home, making a small dinner for two, and Castiel can't help but notice how tired he looks. He always looks tired these days—except maybe on Sundays, when they both spend entire mornings in bed—but Dean still smiles at Castiel when he gets home, still makes sure that he has something to eat before Dean leaves for his nightly shift ( _Tuesdays-Wednesdays-Fridays_ , Castiel recites to himself). This, too, feels like a repetition.

He walks straight into their little bathroom and takes a brief shower. When he comes out, there are warm burgers on the kitchen counter. 

Dean is already gone.

\--

Later (much later), Dean comes home smelling of smoke and rainwater. He makes little noise as he undresses, but Castiel knows his routine by now, and can almost visualize Dean's actions: how he toes off his shoes, and then slips out of his coat, carefully hanging his tie on the same hanger where his jacket goes. Dean will then brush his teeth, and wash his face. He'll absently rub at his knee when it aches.

There is this thing, however: when Dean turns the lights off and walks to the bed in the darkness, when he slides into bed with a yawn. He easily coaxes Cas' arms up so that Dean can wrap himself around him, and the press of Dean's skin against Castiel's own will always feel brand new.

The nose against the nape of Castiel's neck is tentative, shy even, and Cas turns around in the embrace, lets Dean hold him close.

"Hello, Dean," he slurs, as always, settling into the added warmth. Details like these, he thinks, are easier than others to understand.

Dean kisses Castiel's mouth, and Cas understands this form of communion the most.

\--

On Saturday, Cas wakes up at eleven. He brushes his teeth, makes coffee, gets dressed. Tries to comb his hair.

Goes to work.

 


	3. A Silent Imputation of Parsimony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas comes home after a long day of moving boxes and Dean is sitting on the side of their bed, morosely staring at their line phone.

Some days it's harder to pretend like this is anything like the life they always wanted. Or not wanted. Cas hasn't been human long enough to know the difference.

These days feel like the air does before a storm; everything is pregnant with the promise of rain, of thunder. Of despair.

Cas comes home after a long day of moving boxes and Dean is sitting on the side of their bed, morosely staring at their line phone. There's an ashtray by his side and a cigarette in his hand, and Castiel frowns at the sight of it as he takes off his shoes and jacket. He's hungry and it's been a tough day and he wishes Dean would be making dinner instead of sulking pathetically in their little bedroom with the growing stains on the walls and ceiling.

"The phone won't dial itself," he snaps, throwing his vest over the chair in the corner. He knows what fantasies Dean is torturing himself with, and perhaps, in another time, he would have been a bit more tactful, a bit more understanding. But today? Today Castiel's back hurts. There's a blister on his right foot and a hole in his stomach, and he has not the patience nor the generosity to spare Dean.

"I'm hungry," he says, and Dean turns like he just noticed Cas is in the room.

"We have a kitchen," Dean answers, making a vague hand gesture in the kitchen's direction. He takes a drag of the cigarette and then adds: "You can cook."

Cas doesn't want to resent Dean, but on days like this it's hard to remember that he loves him. Yes, Dean lost a lot of things, but so did Cas. And he's _trying_. He really is.

"My back hurts," he insists.

"Too fucking bad, Cas."

That spurs Castiel into action. He stomps into Dean's personal space, snatching the cigarette from his hand. Dean glares at him but doesn't move from his spot, doesn't defend himself from Castiel's seething fury.

"Don't forget you did this to yourself," Castiel snaps, crushing the little stick with his fingers, burning himself on the lit end. He doesn't know if he's hoping for Dean to be angry or to be hurt, but neither happens. Dean just hold his end, looking at him steadily through smoke-stained lashes, and has the gall to laugh, ugly and loud.

Here's the thing that plagues Castiel's nightmares: not death, nor aging, nor aching bones. It's Dean's belief that this life of theirs is some temporary commodity that they got. That it's a punishment, or a prison, or something they _deserve_. Not a life that they are building, irregular and shabby as it may be. To Castiel, this is _everything_. To Dean, this is _everything they lost_. And his existence is shaped around the one absence that they never talk about, and Castiel isn't sure he can continue pretending like he doesn't come home every once in a while, after a three day Dean-brand sulking, wondering if Dean will be gone.

The irony of it is such that he wants to laugh, or maybe cry, and Dean is giving him that half-assed grin like he _knows_ , and it's all Castiel can do not to punch his face. Or kiss him. _He_ doesn't know.

He composes himself and goes to grab a coat.

"Where are you going," Castiel hears Dean say. It's not even phrased as a question, and Castiel knows Dean dreads the solitude as much as he does, or maybe more. He slams the door without answering and takes the stairs two at a time, longs to be out with haste.

\---

There's a good Mexican food place not far away, and halfway through the take away queue, Castiel realizes he's wearing Dean's coat. It's warm and it smells familiar, but isn't as soft as Cas' own. There's money in its pockets and Castiel buys the most expensive burritos out of spite. Ten dollars and eighty seven cents. He thinks about walking around for a bit, maybe even spending the night somewhere else, but he can't bear the thought of Dean alone in the apartment, berating himself and wallowing in his self-pity and self-hate. He wishes, not for the first time, that Sam would just call. Cas knows Dean won't make the move: he agreed to Sam's terms of his own volition, and one of them was the request for space. Dean's been honouring that promise for the best part of four years, but Castiel has seen it slowly eat him away from the inside.

Holding the last bit of a massive burrito, he sighs.

If only.

\---

Dean is in the kitchen when Castiel comes back. There's an array of pots over their old stove, the sweet smell of something cooking, mixed with spice and sweat and something more. Dean stands, sheepish, in the middle of them. Castiel's stomach turns: he has eaten too much.

"You left your wallet here," Dean says, his voice small, shoulders shrinking into himself, "I thought you might want to eat something when you returned." He glances briefly at Castiel, barely catches him nod. Cas recognices an apology when he sees one.

"Okay," he says. His hands tighten around the bag with he extra burrito he brought for Dean, but before he can think twice about it he pretends the trash needs to be taken out and rushes into the service room of their floor, punches everything down the garbage chute, lets it go.

Later that night, Castiel will be sick and Dean's open palm will rest on his clammy skin as Cas holds on to the toilet bowl. The burrito bag in the garbage chute will rot and a neighbour will complain: a notice will be pinned to the elevator mirror, but neither Dean nor Castiel will see it.

For now, they eat in a silence that feels like the stillness of the city after a winter storm. The atmosphere is earthy, light, a promise fulfilled. It smells of cilantro and mothballs, but it also smells of home.

At least this, Castiel knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to outpastthtemoat, tsadde and MajorEnglishEsquire for their input, spell checking and encouragement ♥
> 
> This piece was inspired by the short story The Gift of the Magi, which I read as a child. It was what spurred the atmosphere of this whole verse, so I'm happy to have come up with a piece that evoques the themes and bitter-sweet quality of it. The title belongs to a passage from it as well.


	4. Vencedores Vencidos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean should already know this. In their life, things never go as planned.

" _Annyeonghi gyeseyo_ ," Dean hears Cas say from the other side of the Korean market's parking lot. He says it with the same casualness he would say " _dobar dan_ " to the florist three minutes away from their home, or " _tenha um bom dia_ " to the homeless man who lives just around the corner.

Today, it's a Monday afternoon as Dean waits in his car for Cas' shift to be over. The Impala is parked in the lot of the little Korean market, and Dean is wearing one of the good suits that he kept from their hunting days: the dark burgundy one, the one that brings out his eyes. He looks a little uneasy, sitting there all dolled up; he rarely ever goes out of his way to _look_ good, but he hopes Cas will appreciate the view. He has a little something planned for tonight.

A woman walks Cas to the car, and Dean recognizes her as Mrs. Park. They are speaking in a language that sounds vaguely familiar to Dean, but he can't understand it. Cas looks mildly horrified at something she says, but then again he always does. They bow to each other and Cas gets into the car.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says with a tentative smile. He straightens himself up, flashes a nervous little grin at Cas. "How was work?"

Castiel shrugs. That's all he does. He puts his seatbelt on and shrugs.

"A cat defecated in the fish area. It was kind of unpleasant," he mutters. He gives Dean a quick glance and a hint of a subdued smile, eyes crinkling before he closes them and leans back.

Dean blinks. _Okay_ , he thinks to himself. Cat shit. That would put a damper on anybody's mood. He draws a breath and forces his disappointment down. _Cas misses these kind of things_ , Dean tells himself. _He does that. He wore the same trenchcoat for five years, for crying out loud._

Cas sighs. "Can we go home now?"

"Actually..."

\---

Dean had this little outing planned: a generous dinner at a fancy restaurant he had been saving up for for some time, with expensive wine and dessert, the whole shebang. He and Cas have been living together for over four years, and they had never been on a proper date. Not one like this at least, like the kind of date normal people go out for.

But Dean should already know this. In their life, things never go as planned.

"Dean," Cas sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose once Dean parks in front of the five star restaurant the city is most popular for, "we can't afford this."

"Sure, we can," Dean responds as he kills the engine and unbuckles his belt, "I've been saving up." He makes a motion to get out of the car, but Cas remains in his seat.

"We could fix the kitchen faucet," he suggests, "or the stains in the ceiling. I would very much like to get those stains off our ceiling."

Dean blinks. Several times. Cas is dead serious, and he’s not looking like he's going to change his mind, and Dean doesn't understand. Why is Cas dismissing him so fast? It occurs to him that perhaps Cas doesn't even want to be _here_ , with him, but that thought is too much to bear, so he focuses instead on the problem at hand.

"You want to fix the ceiling," he repeats, deadpan. Cas nods vigorously, not a trace of doubt in his handsome face, and Dean gives the restaurant behind him one last, hopeful look, then goes back to Cas, who does smell a little bit like cat shit and cheap detergent.

Dean has a spare suit in the trunk and a reservation under his name for seven.

Instead, he buckles his seatbelt and they take off.

\---

They make a quick stop at the park close to their place. Cas bolts out of the car, and Dean follows him with a slight frown etched onto his nose. In his burgundy suit, he sticks out like a sore thumb among the people strolling down the little red stone trails. This is where Cas comes on the weekends when it's sunny. He’ll bring a book or a notepad and spend hours walking around, sitting or chatting with the more permanent faces populating the area.

They walk for a little while, shoulders brushing. Cas looks pleased with himself, unaware of the turmoil taking over Dean's mind. They come across a street vendor that sells hot dogs and buttered pretzels and Dean's stomach makes an ugly sound. It makes Cas almost laugh.

" _Dos, por favor_ ," Castiel says to the vendor, a short, seasoned man of fifty-something years. The vendor answers in a melodic Spanish, coaxes a giggle out of Castiel. A _giggle_. Dean stares stupidly through the whole exchange, unable to recognize the words they’re saying. These days, it seems like everybody understands Cas far better than Dean does.

_Four years_ , Dean reminds himself, _four fucking years_.

When Cas hands him a large, greasy hot dog, Dean has lost all traces of his appetite.

\---

Coming home should be a relief, but Dean feels out of sorts.

He watches Cas make a beeline for the shower, discarding clothes as he goes, while Dean stands there in his nice burgundy suit, all pretty and dolled up. Stands in a kitchen full of half burnt pots and a faucet that doesn't close all the way. He throws the Impala's keys onto the counter, rubs at his aching knee, and then goes to the shelf where they keep the important telephone numbers. There's a card for a plumber here somewhere, he recalls.

It takes Cas a good ten minutes to get out of the shower, and when he returns to the kitchen, sleepy and very naked, Dean is sitting at their little table in his nice suit, silently munching cereal from an almost empty box.

He feels more than sees Cas move closer to him, his eyes narrowed and wondering.

"You're angry," Cas says, sitting next to him and carefully wrapping his arms around Dean's waist. Dean wants to shrug, but Cas perches his sharp chin on his suited shoulder, noses his neck, and breathes softly against the ticklish spot underneath Dean's ear.

It's so easy, then, for Dean to breathe out and say:

"Yes."

Cas nods, kisses the stubble on Dean's jaw. Cas is rarely ever this physical with him, but when he is, he is terribly affectionate. It scares Dean, the little ways in which Cas undoes him. The extent of his warmth: how he makes Dean's throat constrict and his lungs expand beyond his ribs.

"This is what people do, Cas,” Dean says. “They go out and do nice things together, to forget about their miserable lives for a while."

For a moment, Cas stills and ponders these words. He stops his trail of kisses and almost sees the tension rolling off the side of Dean's face.

"Are you miserable, Dean?"

The question makes Dean uncomfortable, and he unsuccessfully tries to wiggle out of Cas' grip. "No," he says, truthfully, "but you have to admit this is less than ideal. And I'm not exactly a great catch."

Cas tightens his hold on Dean, burrows his face against the softness of Dean's suited arm.

"You're the only catch I'd care to... catch."

"Wow.” Dean can’t help the amused huff that escapes him at that. “That's lame, Cas."

Dean gets poked on the side and a tickling war ensues. Hands still moving against each other, they stumble to their room. Before hitting the bed, Cas strokes the lapels of Dean's suit, giving him an open look full of unrestrained love.

"You look nice," he says, and the way he caresses Dean's jaw with his palm suggests an unspoken, _you always look nice to me_.

The way Cas folds his fingers around the jacket, kindly pushing it back tells Dean, _I'm most happy when you're around_.

Cas nimble fingers unbuttoning Dean's white shirt softly whisper, _I don't want you to be anything but yourself._

Cas kisses Dean and he can hear what Cas is really saying, clear and sound.

_I want you, and everything you are._

\---

Dean comes home the next day after ten exhausting rounds to the warm, rich smell of cinnamon and apples coming from their apartment. He follows that scent, his mouth watering in anticipation.

When he opens the door, he find Cas standing awkwardly in an ill-fitting blue suit, lighting candles in their kitchen. There's a pie from the bakery across the street on the table where Dean had been sulking the night before, and a pot full of weirdly arranged Jasmines.

Cas turns around as soon as Dean crosses the door, surprised.

"Dean," he mumbles, mouth agape, "you're early."

It's been over four years since they moved in together, and Dean and Cas stay in for their first date.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to Dusty (dustline@tumblr), who helped me to get through this installment when i was lost the most.
> 
> This story is becoming a thing of its own, and I don't know how to feel about that. Hopefully, it'll last long enough that we find out.


	5. And I must be Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They call him Old Neal, and he takes an immediate like of Dean when he finds out about his car. That is, until he finds out about Cas.

They call him Old Neal, and he has an impressive classic car collection. He comes to the station maybe once or twice every two weeks, and there’s something about him that makes Dean’s skin crawl with familiarity. Old Neal reminds him of John, sometimes, or maybe Bobby. He’s a handsome, old fashioned man, with more money than any of Dean’s peers at the station could ever dream to own, but with a passion for hard work (and hard working men) that is admired by all.

“He used to drive a bus here, when he was what, eighteen?” one of Dean’s buddies at the station says. They tell Dean the story one rainy day in their shared little lounge when a pipe breaks and their street gets too flooded to even dream of driving a bus across it.

Old Neal was a homeless boy from Arkansas. He had fled his hometown and somehow ended at the old station, too young to drive a bus but old enough to take care of himself. He had been given shelter and a temporary home by the chief manager back then, cleaning and helping the drivers with vehicle maintenance. He was a brilliant boy, they say. He got on the bus as soon as he got his license, worked earnestly for enough years until his love of cars and smart disposition landed him a job at a dealership. And then he went on to have a dealership of his own, and the rest is history. He owns more dealerships than they can bother to count now, made his way up fast and steady, but never forgot about his humble origins.

They call him Old Neal, and he takes an immediate like of Dean when he finds out about his car. That is, until he finds out about Cas.

Which is, in Dean’s opinion, kind of ridiculous. Everybody at the station knows about Cas. It’s not like Dean hides him or anything. He’s been around several times. He’s been extended invitations for events that require a plus one. He’s come with Dean to the chief’s daughter’s wedding, he’s been to various barbeques, birthday and farewell parties organized by other drivers. Cas might not be a fan of social gatherings (especially the ones that require etiquette knowledge), and Dean may have to coddle and negotiate sometimes, but he makes a point of trying not to keep Cas apart from his personal life. And Cas humors Dean, most of the time.

 Cas lets Dean drag him, awkwardly and tentatively that first year, to whatever event Dean thinks he can’t bail out of, and they share the load together, Cas shouldering Dean’s rising social anxiety, and Dean brushing Cas’ human behaviour blanks with a discreet laugh and a soft smile. They just _work_ together, Dean thinks, and his mates adore Cas, more or less. They find him odd or hilarious, and the few of them that were shocked when Dean (of all people!) introduced them to their male partner so casually have long since gotten used to the presence of the strange blue eyed man at their social gatherings.

 They aren’t a big group, of course. There’s Elsa, the only female driver they have, who is kind and compassionate but can inspire fear as much as she does respect; Patrick, the texan boy with too big a mouth; Raul, whom Dean actually likes a lot (partially because he doesn’t talk much, but mostly because he usually blasts Deep Purple’s greatest hits at full volume when he takes his breaks on Wednesday nights), and Allen and Jack, brothers, who have been driving buses most of their lives.

There’s the chief, Bill, and then there’s their unofficial benefactor, Old Neal, who makes sure the station is always well equipped, regardless of how tight their budget might get.

He owns a garage a few streets down the road, and he often lets Dean work on the Impala there for free.

“A man should always take good care of his car,” he tells Dean one afternoon when the sun is high but the air is cold and dry. Dean is sprawled beneath his car, covered in grease and dirt. Old Neal can only see his feet, but he knows Dean wouldn’t let anybody else touch his precious car. He stands next to the jean clad legs and the worn boots, runs a hand over the Impala’s roof. “It’s a good, strong car you got here. ‘Merican made. As it should be.”

Dean smiles to himself beneath his car. He knows what comes next: he’s been playing this same routine for the past year or so.

“Too bad you ain’t got a good, strong woman at home, as you ought.”

The silence stretches between them and soon Dean finishes his work. He crawls out into the open and tries to stand up, but his knee gives and Old Neal has to catch him with a tight grip, lest he fall down. He helps Dean up.

Dean winces before stabilizing himself, and brushes his hands on the sides of his jeans once he does.

“I got a lot more than I deserve at home, sir.” He shrugs. Once, many years ago, he may have let those words get to him, but not even the long lasting echoes of John Winchester can make him flinch now.

Old Neal stares at him with searching eyes. In the sun like this he reminds Dean so much of Bobby Singer that his heart clenches in his chest, hitting him with the memory of a time when Bobby had looked at him with sad, sorry eyes. _What have you done, boy?_

“I just worry about you, kid,” Old Neal says, his hand holding on to Dean’s shoulder, “you’re a good man.”

Dean is forty one years old, but sometimes he still feels like that child who had just lost his mother, who wanted nothing more than to belong somewhere again.

“And so is Cas.”

\---

Cas isn’t home when Dean comes back that afternoon. The apartment always feels empty without him, which is more often than not, so Dean fills it with music and sound, just not to be so alone. There’s an old picture of a smiling woman over their microwave, and Dean glances at it every other minute as he stirs some canned tomato soup over the stove. He doesn’t know if he misses her still, but he likes to think he does. Can you really miss someone you can barely remember?

When he goes to the room, after he dines, he takes the picture with him. A text message informs him that Cas will be a while, doing inventory or some shit, so Dean strips and flops over the big bed, claws his way under the heavy duvet and surrounds himself with nothing but darkness and warmth and a smile he can only feel when he closes his eyes.

His mind often wanders to dangerous places: to demon deals and perdition, to absent fathers and running brothers and lovers than never stayed the night. He holds on to the picture against his lips, thinks about the little family he’s made here. He thinks about Elsa’s homemade blueberry pies (baked by her daughter, religiously made for Dean’s birthday every year), about Jack and Allen teasing Dean about his fear of flight, and him spoiling them the ending to every show they’re watching out of spite, of Patrick’s antics and how everybody plots against the poor kid, of Raul’s appreciating smile whenever Dean murmurs the chorus of Wish You Were Here under his breath. He thinks of the chief’s daughter in her beautiful wedding dress and how Cas’ eyes had crinkled when she asked him for a dance.

His story has always been about family. The ones he’s lost (mom, dad, Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Benny, Kevin… the list is vast), the one he’s kept (Charlie, Jody, Garth, and in some way, Sam), and the one he’s beginning to make for himself.

This thought is enough to keep the nightmares at bay, but just for good measure he gives the picture a soft kiss and slips it under his pillow.

“Keep me safe,” he prays, although he is unsure to whom it goes.

He falls asleep shortly after that and briefly awakes once Cas sneaks into bed with him, eager to steal as many of the blankets as he can. Dean’s last thought before he goes under, face pressed against Cas’ nape, and nose full of wild hair, is that Old Neal can shove it.

Dean doesn’t know if he is a good man any more, or if he’ll ever be one, but he’s got a place he can call a home now, and he’s got a family, and it may not be great and it may not be all he ever wanted, but it’s _his_ , and no fate nor deity nor devil had anything to do without it.

And the best part?

He gets to share it with Cas.

And he’s more than okay with that.

\----

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, big thanks to Ella and Dusty, who have very patiently offered grammar/spelling checks and invaluable input ♥
> 
> As I've already said, I really feel that this story, originally intended to be just little snippets at Dean and Cas' post apocalyptic life, has really taken a turn of its own. I never planned for it to become a long story or a universe of its own, but there has been character development and a little bit of world building in these last pieces, and as much as I want to shake my fist at it for escaping my total control, I am also rather happy with where it's going. But anyway. We'll see where these characters take us. I hope you'll all enjoy the ride.


	6. Where the Cold Wind Blows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s windy outside, and Castiel stands on the ledge of the top floor of a public building.

It’s windy outside, and Castiel stands on the ledge of the top floor of a public building. He doesn’t stand so close to the edge that he could risk falling, but close enough that he can feel the wind slapping his face, running through his body, making his open sweater float behind him like a cape. If he closes his eyes and concentrates on the rough caress on his cheeks, his nest of hair dancing wildly over his face and the idle sounds of the bubbling city below, he can almost remember how it felt like to fly. How gravity had no influence over him and he was weightless, formless, how his body curved time and space to be where he needed to be the most.

He takes a deep breath and spreads his arms. It’s cold here, and he sheds his sweater, lets his skin go slightly numb. He’s flying.

Of course Dean doesn’t know about this. Dean isn’t aware of Cas’ little trips around the city, how he knows all the high buildings that have public terraces one can visit, how he’s been prohibited from entering a building or two after someone caught standing him too close to the edge of a balcony, outside the rails. Dean can’t know. It would break his heart, and Castiel has done enough of that to try again.

Still, he needs this. He needs the rush, he needs the knowledge that this life is a _choice_. And he needs to feel weightless, sometimes. To remember that other thing that he used to be, the mighty, terrible, frightening being that used to inhabit this skin. He doesn’t wish to forget who he has been, but this human existence is so fragile and so temporary, so small. He hasn’t been able to fly in years and years, but if he closes his eyes, if he pretends he can, he can find some little respite, can forgive this body for being nothing but dust and old bones.

\---

Sometimes Cas gets into these cranky spells. That’s what Dean calls them, anyway. Not to Cas’ face, no. Cas overheard Dean talking about it on the phone with one of his coworkers, and he found it somewhat bemusing, because he had never thought of himself as cranky, a terribly human feat. He’s thought of himself on these periods as intolerable, irrational maybe, although not so much. Overwhelmed, perhaps. Wary. He’s lived eons on Earth and observed humanity at its finest and darkest, but being a part of it escapes him in so many ways. What are six years in an immortal creature’s way? That’s how long he’s been doing this dance for. Six years, four or which he’s lived with Dean.

So yeah, Cas can get cranky. Cas can get annoyed at the alarming way in which his eyes don’t focus as they used to, and how tedious morning routines are, at the fact that he needs to shower and brush his teeth, at having to cook, at having to piss, at needing to fuck. He’s only human now, after all. He can fume and scowl at the blisters on the ball of his feet, despite Dean’s ministrations and the promise that it will heal promptly.

Cas shuts his mouth and refuses to talk for the best part of some weeks, and Dean lets him. Dean just comes home, kisses his cheek, if Cas will allow it, treads lightly around him like one would with a scared animal, and it makes Castiel angrier, nastier, but he doesn’t talk. He lets Dean feed him, because he needs it, lets Dean curl around him at night, while Cas glares with whatever righteous indignation he still has at the various stains on the ceiling, at the one that looks like a big sumatra rat.

Cas is never sure what he’s so angry at, but these bouts of pure rage come and go, leave him feeling exhausted, restless. He supposes he regrets being less, now. Being this puny mortal sack of dirt who can’t even fly. Who wouldn’t know how to live without being propped up.

He sighs.

He stands on the balcony of their own apartment, letting the morning air kiss his eyes. It’s still cold, still humid, still damp. It’s always damp, but there will be no rain, so he breathes in the morning air, fills his lungs to the brim once, twice. Somewhere in the city the sun is rising from its daily nap, but from this little corner of a grey, stale neighborhood, all he can see is a clear purple sky.

He’s not naked, but he wishes he were; he prefers the soft chill of the autumn to the gentle warmth of the spring.

In the company of three pots of plants and a litany of forgotten cigarette butts, he stands, still, for hours, and waits for Dean to come home.

Cas hasn’t talked to Dean in three days.

When Dean returns from his nightly rounds, twenty minutes later than usual, he brings home a bouquet of peonies. He peels off his working clothes, as Cas stands motionless on the balcony. When Dean gets into the bathroom, Cas comes inside, closes the door behind him. He takes the peonies and arranges them in a plastic jar that Dean hates. Cas likes flowers, in general, but Cas likes the flowers that Dean gets him the most.

Dean doesn’t say a word when he returns to the bedroom. He frowns at their pristine bed, evidence that Cas hasn’t slept, but his eyes soften when they land on the flower jar on the nightstand to the left. He approaches Cas, tentative, and Castiel suddenly can’t bear to have Dean act so skittish around him, so he says:

“Hello, Dean.”

There is this thing, with Dean’s face. When he smiles, it can brighten up an entire room.

“Good morning, Cas.”

Dean looks tired, as per usual, but he still takes the time to kiss Cas’ cheek, despite most likely wanting to sleep. He flops on the bed, then, Castiel trailing after him, but getting as far as the bed’s feet, where he sits, biting his cheek.

He needs to make some things clear before he allows Dean to sleep. Frowning to himself, he tries to rethink his earlier statements. He knows he could live by himself, if he wanted. He knows, in terms of time, that Dean is a tiny blip in his existence. He has lived eons without him, and he could continue to do so. Much like his humanity, Dean has been (has always been) his _choice_.

But he frowns, still, knowing that Dean’s attention is on him. How to convey this?

“Dean,” he starts, fixing his stare on the soft callouses of his hands, “you do know, right?”

Dean’s eyebrows fly high on his brow.

“Know what,” Dean says, amused.

“You know,” Cas continues, vague, indicating the air around them. He feels awkward having to be verbal about what he feels, the words tasting weird in his mouth, but Dean isn’t exactly Neruda, so he tries again. “That I… that I love you, and, well… despite my. Moods.”

 There is a quick silence, and Dean chuckles from the bottom of his heart.

 “Aren’t you a romantic,” he says, but still reaches for Cas, pulls him into the bed until he’s sprawled all over Dean’s warm body. Castiel is pliant under his touch, but still tries to take offense at Dean’s teasing of his fatal wooing techniques.

 “I could be a romantic,” Cas protests, “I could have serenaded you.”

 Dean looks a bit skeptical, but still gives him a cocky grin, says, “Oh yeah? Then woo me, maestro.”

 Cas goes into a terrible out of pitch rendition of an old Whitesnake song, and Dean laughs with his body, wholeheartedly, a hand over his belly, until he pleads and relents and accepts Cas’ offering as is, admits Cas is a perfect romantic, calls him Casanova, the next Coverdale, the only dorky little dude he’ll ever want to kiss, and lets Cas fold him as he likes best, until they’re pressed together under their fancy duvet, between their well worn sheets.

 Dean falls asleep soon as Cas watches him, every so often glancing at their filthy ceiling where another stain is taking over a corner, in the shape of a moth, or a butterfly, or a bee.

 He counts the hours until he needs to get up to go to work, and for once doesn’t think about falling.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thanks to Dusty and Ella for being my partners in crime and offering me concrit and inspiring me to keep on writing.


	7. Watching the World go Blistering By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every once in a while, Dean visits a rehab clinic.

Every once in a while, Dean visits a rehab clinic. He goes in in days when he does the afternoon rounds and gets out of work early enough that Cas won’t be there when he gets home. They don’t live in the fancier of neighborhoods, so it’s easy to find kids who are no older than fourteen loitering around the alleys, wariness seeping into their bones the closer it gets to going home. They have learned things no kid their age should learn, and Dean knows a thing or two about skipped childhoods.

Ricardo is one of those kids. Barely sixteen and already his shoulders sag under the weight of a harsh life, mixed with pills and violent fathers and bouts of alcoholism.

“Hey, kid,” Dean greets him that afternoon, dropping a bag of Doritos and some peanut M&M’s in the room where they are scheduled to meet. There aren’t many people around; it looks like a slow day, even for the late hour, which suits both Dean and Ricardo just fine.

“It’s Ricardo,” the kid frowns, taking the bag of Doritos and opening it very carefully despite the eager look in his eyes. Dean smiles warmly at him.

“Fine, Ricardo,” he says, awkwardly rolling the Rs. Ricardo looks pleased at this, and munches his treat with a smug look upon him. He pockets the M&M’s (to give to his sister, Dean knows), and waits expectantly for Dean to indicate it’s time to go.

As usual, they go through Adela, the caretaker, who gives Dean the same indications she does every three weeks, and reminds them of their curfew with a tired smile. Dean nods solemnly every time: he values her work. He has been on every side of the fence before.

So they take off. Ricardo likes the Impala better than he has liked any other car, and unlike all his previous substitute Older Brothers, Dean likes the kid just as well, even when he spills crumbs all over the upholstery. They drive around the city, following less travelled roads and then some. There’s a sort of silent companionship between them that has been the cementing aspect of their growing bond, even a year back when Dean was new and awful at this, and Ricardo had been burned too many times to allow himself to open up. Now, though? They click. Dean treats Ricardo like an adult, tries to say his full name without a sneer on his mouth, takes him to the movies and lets him have all the popcorn and most of his sodas, and Ricardo follows Dean around without expecting anything from him, respects his silences and is grateful for the simple fact that Dean is there, and nothing else.

Some other times Dean takes him to empty lots or more desolate places and they spend the few hours they have together listening to music (although Ricardo is strictly into hip hop and reggaeton and Dean is desperately trying to teach him to listen to real music, to no avail), eating junk food and chatting and sharing silly anecdotes of their spectacularly slow lives. Dean will show Ricardo a silly picture he’s snapped of Cas’ grumpy face and Ricardo will answer with a story about his lovely baby sister or his dork of a best friend. Every now and then Ricardo slips into Spanish, calls Dean his _hermano_.

Dean would be lying if he said that Ricardo doesn’t help him as much as Dean does him.

He drops the kid back at the clinic with five extra minutes to say goodbye. Ricardo is not prone to affectionate displays, but he smiles at Dean in a way that tells Dean he wishes he was. So Dean grabs his arm and pulls him into a hug, ruffles his hair like he used to do to Sam before he grew his last mile. “Take care kiddo,” he says. This past week must have been especially taxing because Ricardo actually hugs him back.

“It’s Ricardo,” he says, without punch. He seems loathed to leave, so Dean squishes his arms, pulls him against his chest, tight.

“See you in a couple of weeks.”

It’s a bit hard to leave, some times. Dean stands in front of the run down building and just watches all those kids going in and out, most of them just freshly out of elementary school, if they even attend that. All of them forgotten cases of addiction, abandonment, abuse.

It makes Dean wonder if they’ve ever really gone after the right kind of monsters.

\--

Once the sun goes down, Dean drives the Impala home but takes a walk before going in. He needs to unwind, needs to stop thinking he’s mindlessly substituting his brother--he’s not, Dean knows. He’s done _good_ in that kid’s life. He’s being like a real big brother, for once. He respects the kid, he lets him choose, be his own self. He’s doing all the things he should have done with Sam. He’s learning, too. But Dean’s mind is not always a comfortable space.

It isn’t after forty or fifty minutes of walking that he notices _them_. Once his knee starts aching more than usual, the cold and dampness doing nothing to quell the dull throb that runs through his upper leg, he turns back to go home. He’s being followed, he can tell, by at least two or three individuals. He snorts.

They’re probably vandals or gang members or common little thieves, and Dean knows that even in this less than ideal state, they’re still no match for him. Still, he wishes for them to leave. He doesn’t want to fight, not today. After a few minutes, he turns around a dark corner, mentally mapping the block he’s on and missing now, more than ever, the ice cold metal of his pearl Colt against the skin on his lower back. His fists will have to do, tonight.

When it’s obvious that he’s aware of his stalkers, they come to light. As Dean imagined, three drunk kids in their mid twenties, looking for a bit of fun. He feels a pang of disappointment; he hasn’t met a Supernatural being in quite a long time.

“Hey, old man,” one of them sneers, walking slowly towards Dean. His accent is thick but Dean can’t place where it’s from. Cas would know, he reminds himself, before the second and third men appear under the lone working street light. There is nobody else in the street, at least not for another block, and Dean wonders if he’ll be able to outrun them if he just escapes. Probably not with his knee in its current state. Shit.

“Hey kids,” Dean replies, as cocky as he would have been ten years ago, “isn’t it past your bedtimes?”

The first man attacks him, tries to go for his arm, but Dean catches his fist and turns it around, slams him against a wall.

“Hey, hey, I don’t want to hurt any of you, so why don’t you all just scram?” he says, gentler than he thought he would, as he presses the man— _boy—_ , against the brick wall. The kid struggles against his hold, and Dean wonders how long will his knee hold before giving, but the boy deflates, defeated, and Dean lets him go.

Barely a second later, both other kids charge against him. They are rabid and drunk in vitriol, angry and delirious and violent for the sake of violence. Dean hates it, but he fights, because that’s what he does. It doesn’t last long and it looks like any common street fight, until one of them produces a knife. He tries to get Dean, whose knee finally gives after a low blow to it, and with an anguished cry he falls to the ground. The kid throws himself against Dean, and the little silver blade in his hand makes it way into Dean’s knowledgeable fist, where it turns into a lethal weapon. Dean feels it, the rush. He hadn’t felt it in a long time, but he also hadn’t been involved in a pointless fight in a long time. It pumps through his veins, strong and impossible to ignore, and he punches the kid off of him, the strike so hard that he draws blood out of the kids’ mouth. And then he’s off. He launches himself on the strongest of the three, drives his fist hard into the boy’s cheek and continues to put bruise after bruise into his already bloody face. His body is going on muscle memory alone, and when he lifts the hand with the blade, hard and unforgiving, one of the other kids yells something in some strange language, maybe a threat or a plea to stop, and Dean’s mind says, yet again: Cas would understand that. And suddenly the last few minutes come crashing on him and the boy beneath him groans—alive, he’s _alive_ ,—and Dean lets go of the knife. He drops it like it’s burning, and he’s shaking, and his fist is shaking, and he knows there’s movement behind him but _he_ can’t move. He can’t stop the blood pouring from the boy’s mouth, and he sure as hell can’t stop the swinging glass bottle that connects to the back of his head.

He falls.

 

\--

It’s very late when he tries to stumble back home. He limps a couple of blocks, initially, and then mindlessly tries to hail a cab, but nobody will pick up a beaten up adult man. He’s got blood on his nose and mouth, but the worst of it is on his still clenched fist that he can’t seem to open. His knee is burning with pain, his head throbs, and he’s shivering, trembling with cold or fear or regret. A woman on the street takes pity of him and tries to take him to the hospital, but he refuses. He wants to go home. He’s confused and dizzy, and the only thing he knows for sure is that he needs to go to Cas, pronto.

“You have a concussion,” the woman insists. Dean shakes his head, stubborn. After much negotiating, the woman—Monica, she says—manages to punch Cas’ phone number. Through the haze in his head, Dean can hear her as she mumbles her way through an address.

 

\--

Dean comes to again briefly in small light blue room with dirty wallpaper that reminds him of home, and then much later on his bed, under his stained ceiling and his heavy mustard duvet.

He has but to groan, before a pair of worried blue eyes come his way.

“Dean,” a voice says. Cas voice. Relief washes over Dean when Cas’ face shows up on his periphery, but he’s still overwhelmed by the earlier episode and the thirst that had wrecked through his entire body, sensitive to sound and light and especially to Cas’ hand gently touching his face. It’s too much.

Without being able to think about it, he chokes on a dry sob, remembering times when he was a mindless killing machine, when he had enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, of destroying, ravaging and so many other things. He can’t turn into that _thing_ again, he just can’t.

“Cas,” he sobs, “I nearly killed a boy. I almost did.”

Cas looks sick with worry, holds on to Dean like Dean is about to vanish from their bed. Dean feels shame, hot and burning in his stomach. How could he even think about coming back home after something like this.

“What happened?” Cas croaks, searching Dean’s eyes as he tries to keep Dean’s body from shivering. Dean takes as big a breath as he can muster, and tells Cas the bits he can remember between gasps. Cas holds him through it all. Gives him space when Dean looks like he needs it, but never goes far for long. Dean can see the regret in his eyes, can see Cas looking at the bruises on Dean’s arms and gingerly passing tanned fingers through them, wishing he could vanish them with only touch. Dean thinks Cas ought to be upset. Dean could have run from that fight. He could have _tried_ , but he chose not to. And now the damage is done.

When the story comes to an end, Cas doesn’t say “It’s not your fault”. He doesn’t placate Dean with empty promises of “It’ll get better” or “It’s going to be okay”. He gently dabs Dean’s more beaten eye with the wet cloth in his hand, thoughtful for a moment.

“Dean,” he says, putting the cloth down, in that gravelly voice that has sung psalms and prayers and quietly murmured Dean’s name in the dark, “what you did does not define who you are.”

There is silence after that. Dean is exhausted. He doesn’t feel like arguing with Cas, but is still moved by the faith that Cas continues to put on him, despite ever lasting evidence that he’s wrong. He sighs.

He doesn’t feel like he deserves to be coddled right now, but he still lets Cas hold his face with care, lets him wipe the dried blood out of his face and kiss his mouth, because he doesn’t know what he would do if Cas wasn’t here doing all this shit for him. If there was no tenderness, only violence, if there was nobody here to pick his shattered pieces up.

And then he _gets_ it. He remembers Ricardo and his reluctant hugs, and how he always looked surprised whenever Dean did something nice for him. And he sees himself, at nineteen, and twenty eight, and thirty six, and now. He sees a lifetime of addiction and pain, and he understands that the little kid he visits every three weeks isn’t the only one who’s trying to heal. Perhaps he, too, is on his own path of recovery.

Unwillingly, he falls asleep being held by Cas.

 

\--

Cas is already up when Dean opens his eyes the next morning. Dean isn’t sure whether either should be at work, but he’s willing to pretend like they don’t. He searches for Cas with no little trepidation, and spots him on the balcony, eyes closed and facing what little sun he can. He tries to call Cas but his body is a wreck, and what was intended to be a soft sound comes out as a painful groan and a bitter grimace. _You aren’t twenty three anymore, Winchester._

Instead of ignoring him like Cas usually does when he’s into one of his balcony trances, he rushes inside in alarm, but slows down as soon as he sees Dean smiling ruefully at him.

“You should see the other guy.”

Cas rolls his eyes. Already a good sign. He sheds the few clothes he’s wearing and slips into bed next to Dean, careful not to touch his still tender bruises. Once inside, he folds them together, chest to chest, and noses Dean’s neck, trying to burrow into Dean’s heat. Dean kisses the crown of his head, a million things going through his mind.

Neither get out of bed for whatever remains of the day. They watch TV in silence, take naps and see after Dean’s more profound wounds. Cas doesn’t seem upset, just worried, and Dean realises he’s incredibly grateful for this small mercy.

At night, before turning in, Dean holds on to Cas’ warm, naked body, and presses his face against his back.

“I‘ve been thinking,” he says, tentative. Cas hums an affirmative, so Dean continues, “Been talking to Adela these past weeks. Ya know, the lady from the rehab clinic. She said there was this… uh, recovery program. For people with…,”

Dean rakes his mind for the words she used, but it’s Cas who supplies them: “PTSD.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that. Like, counseling and stuff. So anyway I, um. I think I might sign up. For a bit. See how it goes...”

Cas turns so fast in Dean’s arms that he doesn’t give Dean a chance to prepare for his big, blue, hopeful eyes.

“Okay,” Cas says, but his eyes say so much more. Dean gives him a tight smile.

It doesn’t feel easy, but when Cas closes his eyes and kisses him, it feels like a start.

 

\---

fin

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been the longest installment so far, phew. I'd like to say thank you to everyone who has left kudos, reblogged, commented, liked and read this. It really means a lot to me that you're supporting this story, which is my first long Supernatural one! As usual, thanks to Dusty and Ella who have helped me shape Paper Windows into what it is, and have very patiently beta-ed everything I've thrown their way. You guys are the best ♥


	8. Everything Under the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a time before Cas, before driving a bus, before the flowers and forgotten birthdays and their shared mustard duvet, when Dean would wake up alone every day in a cold bed and think: this is it.
> 
> \--
> 
> a glimpse into the events that led to the paper windows timeline.

There was a time before Cas, before driving a bus, before the flowers and forgotten birthdays and their shared mustard duvet, when Dean would wake up alone every day in a cold bed and think, _this is it_. This was it for him, every day and night, the first and last thing that went through his mind. As good as it was going to get; a humid room with stale sheets, a shitty job and the permanent feeling that there was a hole in his chest, or maybe his throat, that wouldn’t ever be filled.

It went like that for a little over a year. He met Adela after his first actual panic attack, and she helped him get through it, even though she didn’t understand what Dean actually meant when he claimed he couldn’t ever clean the blood off of his hands. _You’ll pull through_ , she said. _You’re a good man_. Often, Dean didn’t have the heart to contradict her.

She also got him a job as a night guard to the bus station he ended up driving buses from. The shift wasn’t great but the pay allowed him to change the damp mattress he had been sleeping on. Long gone was the memory foam, but the new one didn’t creak every time Dean so much as touched it.

Laying still in the darkness, every night, accompanied only by the stray sounds of the street below his naked little balcony, he’d think about the kind of life he used to have. He had always been lonely but he had hardly ever been _alone_ , or at least had always been too busy to notice it. And now he could feel both so clearly. It was crippling, ripping through him, that thought. _This is it_.

Even after he got used to the notion, his mind would still supply those words, bittersweet, every night. Fleeting, passing, but never hurting any less. _This is it._

\---

He still woke up every day, went to work, for whomever’s sake.

\--

Cas appeared on his doorstep on a frozen Tuesday morning. Unlike Sam, he had more or less kept in touch. Not spectacularly so—Dean knew better than anybody that Cas wasn’t a permanent kind of fixture in his life,—but enough that Dean knew he was alive. According to Cas’ erratic text messages, he had been all over and then some, but had never said anything about visiting. At least not that Dean remembered.

Cas was dirty and he stunk. His hair was longer that Dean had ever seen it, and his clothes were rumpled in every which way.

“Hello, Cas,” Dean greeted, for once. He pretended like his heart hadn’t leapt in alarm. It was seven in the morning and Dean had just returned from his shift. His nose was cold, his lashes catching the early morning chill. Cas was _right there._

“Dean,” Cas said, whispering Dean’s name in a way that made it sound urgent, like a reverence. He didn’t look too bad, despite his appearance. He just seemed eager to get off the street.

\--

As shared over cheap coffee in Dean’s bare kitchen, Cas had been helping out in a homeless shelter in Detroit. He had been living there, too, until some punk with a grudge set the place on fire, destroying the few things Cas had collected over the year, and the hopes of many others in the process. The founder of the shelter had taken pity on Cas and given him a hundred bucks and told him to go back to the family he so often talked about. Shaken, Castiel had done the only thing he could think about at the time and took a bus all the way to New York. He confessed, years later, that he had nearly changed his mind. He had arrived at Dean’s address at midnight, tired and hungry and feeling nothing but wariness and trepidation, but he was there already, so something compelled him to at least say hello, goodbye.

“Hey man,” Dean said after Cas’ long exposition, “I’m sorry about what happened to you, but I’m glad you visited. How long are you staying?”

Cas shrugged into his third cup of coffee, his stomach no longer aching out of neglect, his skin warm from the hot, much needed shower Dean had allowed him to take.

“A couple of days,” he murmured, tone evident that he hadn’t planned so far ahead. “Just until I can find my footing again. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Sure man, stay as long as you want,” Dean answered from the bedroom while Cas waited at the kitchen table. Trying to clean up the mess of a room he had wasn’t an easy task. He didn’t think Cas would mind, but for his friend to find out how little Dean had cared for his own place filled Dean with shame. He had never been able to give Cas a proper home, but at least for a few nights, he could try. _“Mi casa, su casa!”_

“There’s only one bed, tho,” Dean continued, giving another look at the room at large. It looked… decent, now. When he re-entered the kitchen he found Cas eyeing the chairs in there with longing, surely looking for another suitable spot to spend the night.

“No, Cas. I mean. We can share. If you’re okay with that.”  
\--

Cas went looking for a job the next day, but for a guy with no papers and no last name, he could only get single day shifts and gigs at shady places that weren’t worth the trouble they caused.

\--

“We should get you real documents for once,” Dean said over _chow mien_ one night, about a week into Cas’ stay. Cas was silent for a long while after that. That night, Dean learned that he wasn’t the only one carrying a burden.

Cas didn’t say a word in two days, but he allowed Dean to forge his papers.

Two weeks later Cas had a new ID, an SSN, and a job.

\--

It was odd, sharing a bed and an apartment with Cas, not knowing if he was going to take off without notice as he’d been prone to do. The days and weeks went by; Cas didn’t seem like he was ready to leave, and Dean didn’t seem like he was ready to kick him out. Cas switched from short term jobs to a more permanent one, and Dean started making space for him in the closet and in their shared bathroom cabinet.

When Dean woke up one morning to go to work and he stepped into the kitchen to find a pot of flowers with a post it note that said “I belong to Castiel, don’t throw me away” on it, he realized that Cas had finally moved in. So much so that Cas took over the little balcony and filled it with flowers once the Spring came in full. In May, when Dean had to renovate the lease on the apartment, he added Cas’ name to the contract. He mock-celebrated by buying Cas a bouquet of blue carnations, mostly as a joke, except that Cas was so touched by the gesture that he cried, thus starting a long-lasting tradition of floral gifts.

That December, when the air was cold again, snow coloring the trees and paving the streets with ice, Dean got offered a position as a bus driver rather than a security guard, and a decent enough bottle of whiskey from a co-worker to celebrate. Christmas was yet to come, but what the hell, Dean decided to go early on it. It wasn’t like he was expecting Cas to want to honour that particular holiday. So off they went, into the streets, bundled in old scarves and ratty woolen hats, to have some authentic chili and beer, and toast to nothing, really. Dean had the bottle hidden between his coats, and they opened it halfway through the park on their way back: two reckless, drunk, middle aged men with little to lose.

It didn’t matter, then, who stumbled into whom; just that kissing Cas felt like the warmth of the morning’s first coffee after a long, restless night. Like being grounded, for once, like being _there_ , where he was, where his mouth and his face and Cas’ hands were. He breathed Cas in, his stale breath, the taste of whiskey and spice strong on his mouth, and swallowed the smile that followed. They kissed on.

\--  
Reflecting back on it, that first morning after should have been incredibly awkward, but Dean had woken up to warmth and hair on his face and a leg thrown over his knees. He had groaned, disoriented, expecting to be nursing a rather inconvenient hangover that never really showed. He expected himself to freeze or to freak out, or to do whatever it is that Dean Winchesters did when they had just spent a night kissing their long-lost-best-friends-turned-roommates.

The room stunk of sweat and alcohol and humidity, and he wished he had opened the balcony door when they came home, before sliding into their bed.

_Their_ bed.

And just like that, whatever phantom fear had threatened to invade their living quarters disappeared, and Dean nosed Cas’ jaw and dropped a kiss on his neck. He was allowed to do that now, _kiss Cas_ , if Cas’ answering grumble and feeble attempt at pulling Dean closer to himself were any indication.

\--

Dean didn’t know how to say _don’t leave me_ , so he bought Cas an expensive mustard duvet and a used TV set instead. They didn’t celebrate Christmas, but they made time for each other on New Year, and even when all of Cas wasn’t always there and Dean was exhausted most of the time; when their apartment was constantly falling apart and the wallpaper looked more yellow than white; even then Dean could look at Cas and think, _this is it._

Two, three more years go by.

Dean goes to bed with half an eye on the faint light coming from the balcony door. Cas isn’t due to wake up for another three hours, but he still stirs to greet Dean when he slides beneath the sheets. Cas gives him a sloppy kiss, and as they shuffle and resettle on the mattress, before exhaustion wins him over, Dean’s mind says, _this is it, for the rest of your life._

The anxiety that used to follow those words never really comes.

Dean rests.

\--

fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to MajorEnglishEsquire and clotpoleofthelord for their help proof-reading this part ♥


	9. Eclipsed by the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a memory from the past: There is smoke and Castiel thinks he’s dreaming.
> 
> \--
> 
> On Cas' journey and how he made it to New York, prior to reuniting with Dean, and a little glimpse to what's to come.

This is a memory from the past.

\---

There is smoke and Castiel thinks he’s dreaming. There’s heat and screaming, and the telltale sounds of fire, but the feeling of Hell isn’t quite there. He thinks of Dean—The Righteous Man; he would be here somewhere, if this were Hell. Castiel must be here for him, again.

He shivers and the tremors running through his spine make him open his eyes. 

Smoke greets him, the thick of it quickly blurring the peeled paint on the ceiling of the small, windowless room he’s in. There are sounds in the distance: crying and shouting and a cackling that sounds all too familiar, but he can’t place it. He breathes, face drenched in sweat. He was sick, he recalls. A fever, someone had said. He stays still, cold, burning, delirious. He watches the paint peel until someone breaks through the door in his little room.

\---

The next time he comes to, he’s sitting on the back of an ambulance; a tall, pale woman by his side. There is a blanket over him and not three hundred feet in front of them a building burns to the ground. The flames are vicious, devouring all in their wake, making the firemen work relentlessly, but in vain. The building will collapse, taking a dozen lives with it.

Castiel watches it all from under a blanket. The woman tends to him; tells him how lucky he was to get out and alive, but all he can see is a place he had gotten to call home turning to ashes. It’s cold and quiet outside, except for the deafening sounds of the flames and the anxious voices of the firemen. He sits, barefoot. He hadn’t managed to take anything out of his room when the rescue team came for him. He thinks about all of the little things he had been collecting these past months, about what little money he had, and his leather bag—the one Dean had given him—full of sentimental memorabilia: All gone. His shoes, the blue worn sweater he favoured. What remained of his trench coat. He wonders idly if this is how Dean felt when he was a kid and watched his house burn, but he pushes the thought away. He doesn’t want to think about Dean right now; not when he can feel the claws of despair tearing at his throat.

The shelter is gone, the little life he was building is gone, and once again, Castiel has nowhere to go.

\--

Amidst the chaos of dawn, when the fire has abated and the people who have survived mourn their losses, his boss finds him. She is a tall, tanned woman of forty-something who manages— _managed_ —the shelter the same way a mother would manage a tight family of a hundred members.

“Castiel,” she says, her voice tired, cheeks framed by ash and dirt, “you’re alive.” There is a lot to be said about this woman. She was the first person to offer Castiel kindness without expecting anything in return, and the first to give him a warm meal, a place to sleep, and a makeshift home ever since he had parted from the little broken family he used to call his own. 

Castiel wishes he could offer a word of comfort in return. He thinks, shocked as he is, about telling her they will be alright; thinks of lying about the gravity of the situation and pretending like there is a silver lining to this tragedy. He is, after all, human; he has learned the truth is not always the right thing to say. But being human has also taught him the real measure of human loss, and before he can spew words that have no real meaning behind him, he can feel his throat close up and a dark, deep thing settle in his gut. He makes an involuntary noise; an ugly, desperate noise. The woman—Ms. Penny— comes forth and embraces him, and it takes him a few choked sobs to realise he’s crying.

For the first time in his mortal life, he’s weeping, barefoot and cold, in the arms of a woman he had known for barely a year.

\--

After the shock washes away and the fire squad and medical staff refuse his offer to help out yet again, Castiel is picked up by Ms. Penny’s partner and taken to their personal home, where he crashes heavily on the living room couch and sleeps the rest of his cold away. He’s grateful for Penny and Linda’s kindness, but he’s worn out and weak and can barely stand talking to anybody without spacing out, so they leave him alone for the most part of two days until he recovers, and when it’s clear that he’s overstayed his welcome, he gets ready to pick himself up and be on the move again.

Ms. Penny sits him down in the kitchen before he leaves. Her eyes are red rimmed; she had let Castiel know how many young lives were lost in the fire, and Castiel can’t help but think that a little bit of herself had gone with them as well.

“You should go back to your family, if you can,” she says quietly. “Linda says you kept calling for someone in your sleep. You’re always telling stories about those boys you used to live with.”

All of Castiel’s muscles clench, and he straightens up. He doesn’t think he can go back. He doesn’t know if he will be welcomed.

“Cas,” Penny says, gently touching a hand to Castiel’s jaw, “You could have died in that fire, and they would have never known.”

She gives him a new pair of shoes and a hundred bucks.

He buys a bus ticket to New York and waits and waits and waits for his bus to take off. Later, as the road goes by and Detroit gets left behind, he prays to nobody for the lives of the kids they were supposed to protect.

He makes it all the way to New York, somehow, into the heart of the Bronx. Some invisible force pushes him forward despite all his instincts telling him to go back. Except he has nowhere to go, and what little money he had left he’d spent on a metro card and a couple of sandwiches for the homeless woman living outside the bus station.

He has Dean’s last known address memorized, has fantasized one too many times about making the long trip from Detroit, and even though the little shabby building that greets him is nothing like what he expected, the knowledge that it’s Dean’s _home_ makes it feel like the most cherished place in the world.

It’s close to midnight, and nobody answers the buzzer. He thinks about leaving, but the memory of the fire and Penny’s words root his feet to the ground.

_I could have died without seeing him or Sam again._

He stays.

He doesn’t know that he will end up staying for longer than he could have dreamt.

\---  
\---

Fast forward a few years into the future.

It’s a Thursday afternoon not unlike every other Thursday afternoon, and Castiel sighs, standing on the top of an unsupervised ledge, somewhere in upper Manhattan. He rarely ever ventures this far into the city, but his usual haunts are now well aware of his… tendencies, or so they say. Castiel has tried to explain to them, countless times, that his goal is not to injure himself, but to take his feet as far from the earth as he can; to un-ground himself. There’s a difference. God is in the details, they say, but these days neither seem to be very important.

Inhale, exhale. 

He looks at the traffic below him, squinting his tired human eyes so he can get a better look at the hundreds of little people going about with their lives, unaware that a former angel stands above their heads. Not that it makes a difference to them; but the thought used to fascinate him. Now it just makes him nauseous.

Inhale.

Being human is terribly complicated. Too many social conventions, too many rules that make no sense. He feels out of sorts, most of the time; inadequate. Incapable.

Exhale.

Same old story, but he tries. For his own sake. For Dean, even for Sam. For the kids who lost their lives in the fire, and for the ones who wish they had.

Inhale.

He’s _building_ something here, slowly, finally, with his own hands.

With his own human hands. A house with stained ceilings and paper windows.

His house.

Their house.

\--

Exhale.

\--

His heart falters and he feels light. A rush of heat courses through his spine, and he’s suddenly very dizzy, on this ledge, twenty stories above the ground.

He wonders, vaguely, as his mind clouds, _If I fall, will I be able to fly?_

The answer is immediate: _No_. The next thought tells him his feet are no longer holding him, and he’s suspended on air, as he falls, quite literally, off the ledge. Someone yells something, whether at him or in his direction, but his mind spins and things make little sense.

There is the one thought: _Dean is going to be so mad._

For a split second, he thinks he _can_ fly.

\--

He falls back, into the building.

A security guard catches him before his head crashes against the hard concrete, and a woman from the cleaning department helps him bring Castiel inside. They take him to the building’s resident doctor.

“I may be wrong,” she says, later, her words cutting sharply through the fog in Castiel’s head as she checks his vital signs and makes sure he doesn’t have a concussion, “but you may have suffered an arrhythmia. You will have to go to the hospital to get more tests.”

Castiel nods his head, unable to stop his hands from shaking. He’s not yet entirely sure what just happened, other than him thinking he was facing certain death and waking up a few minutes later on a table made of formica and a doctor looking sternly into his eyes. Certain death isn’t something he hasn’t dealt with before, but the aftermath has never felt like _this_. Like something in his chest is both compressing his lungs and trying to rip it’s way out at the same time.

“I would also recommend seeking professional help,” the doctor continues, carefully, softly, pushing some papers into his trembling hands. Her dark eyes gleam with a worry that is uncalled for; and her empathy, _their_ empathy, the human capacity to care even in the hardest of times makes him flinch, makes him gasp. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Castiel understands that this is a mercy for his sake; that she doesn’t say exactly what she means to say, and that it should infuriate him, but he nods vacantly, and he recognizes his current feeling for what it is: fear.

The doctor reminds him to go to the hospital, several times, as he pushes himself on unsteady feet and stumbles off the table, into the elevator and outside, where his bicycle is chained to a post on the street. He won’t be able to ride all the way to the Bronx, that much is clear.

\--

The first tears come as soon as the lock on his bicycle clicks open.

It’s always a weird sensation, crying. Castiel is wildly unfamiliar with it, always thinking that his lungs are acting up before noticing that the pain in his chest is merely contained anguish. He isn’t very sure this time, having actually just fainted, but once the first sob wrecks through him, he feels the relief of knowing he isn’t going to fall again, and he allows himself this weakness.

He cries, hard enough for the people around him to stare, clutching his bike against him like a lifeline, until it becomes evident that he won’t stop any time soon. He wants to be home, in his bed, on his balcony, he wants to stare at the humidity stains on his wallpaper until he gets sick of it, and feel the warmth of his room and his mustard-coloured duvet, and frown at the hideous plastic container he keeps putting Dean’s flowers in. He wants to hear Dean complaining about the water pressure, about Cas forgetting the kettle on the stove for so long that the fire burned holes into its base.

\--

He’s still crying when Dean picks him up about an hour later, having rushed out of his bus rounds as soon as he got Castiel’s phone call.

Castiel is pretty sure Dean looks as scared as Cas feels; he sounds alarmed and he approaches Castiel as he would a caged animal.

“Cas, what’s wrong?” he says, a look of despair on his face. Castiel has no words yet, but he shakes his head and asks to be taken home.

The drive back home feels stilted, silent, and more than a little tense, but Dean’s hand never once leaves Castiel’s, and for that and the lack of questions, Castiel feels profoundly blessed.

\---

tbc...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my dear friend Beck (troglobite) for beta-ing and their awesome commentary :)


	10. Hide in your Shell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another dull Thursday afternoon in which traffic goes slow and Dean gets rude passenger after rude passenger.
> 
> \---
> 
> In which Dean deals with the events of Cas' near downfall.

Another dull Thursday afternoon in which traffic goes slow and Dean gets rude passenger after rude passenger. He stares with blank eyes at the rear view mirror on the side of his bus, ignoring the loud teenagers and belittling mothers and screaming children that make the temporal inhabitants of his place of work, trying to block out the events of that morning at the Life Support meeting.

Rehab is… okay. Hard. He’s found out that there are actually people who are as fucked up as he is, or worse, and as shitty as it sounds, there is something comforting about that. Having a shrink still makes Dean feel like dying of embarrassment, but he copes. Or he tries. With varying degrees of success. This day in particular has been fine. He feels fine.

He rubs his thighs every time the traffic lights turn red, coaxing the humid air out of his aching knee. He’s tired and anxious and a little horny, and he tries very hard not to think about whether he’ll be able to get Cas in the mood for a handjob or two when he gets home tonight. Cas isn't always enthusiastic about sex these days, but he’ll indulge Dean every now and then, and Dean hopes today will be one of those days.

When the light turns green, he drives on. There is an expensive flower shop on the next stop, and he fantasizes about stopping, just to get something different, better, for Cas.

That’s when his phone starts ringing.

\---

Cas acts like a caged animal when Dean brings him home. He’s quiet and restless, pacing the little kitchen like a man possessed. He looks exhausted, his eyes puffed, red rimmed. Dean had never seen Cas cry before, and he feels like something in his chest is going to explode if he doesn’t find out the cause.

“Cas.”

Dean doesn’t mean it as a warning but it comes out that way. He has to know what worked Castiel up. There can’t be any more secrets between them, not like there were before.

The things with Cas is, Dean knows he keeps things to himself; that he needs his privacy and his secrecy, things that belong solely to him. That’s fine by him. Dean can trust him enough to give him that now. But whatever happened today—there’s a part of Dean that needs to know. He _deserves_ to know. So he insists.

“Cas. What’s going on?”

The way in which Castiel deflates is borderline hysterical. He’s a tropical storm, a hurricane contained into the little frame of a little man. His shoulders sag, he breathes out, and without another word he paces right into their shared room, dropping himself face first onto the mustard duvet that covers their bed.

Dean sits next to him, softly, quietly, stroking a hand against the back of Cas’ calf, the other one on his still aching knee.

“You have to tell me, man. I abandoned my bus on freakin’ fifth. You scared the crap out of me.”

Castiel makes a muffled sound against the plush surface of the duvet, and Dean sighs. He moves further into the bed, laying by Castiel’s side, until Cas turns his head to watch him.

An hour goes by, maybe more. Dean’s knee throbs, aching for attention, but he closes his eyes instead and feels the warmth of Cas’ body, all the points of contact at which they are touching, the weight of Cas’ big blue eyes on him, and waits it out.

\--

“I slipped,” Castiel ( _—finally!—_ ) says hoarsely, later on.

Dean had been dozing, but he finds himself on alert as soon as Cas opens his mouth.

“I was in Manhattan, on a terrace. I was looking down at the traffic and I slipped. I almost fell. I thought I was going to die.”

Dean’s eyes open wide at the statement. Cas dying should have meant so little before, when he was always sure that Cas would come back to him. Cas always came back to him. But every time, every single time he had to witness the lifeless body of the angel, it felt like getting a blade stabbed through his heart. And Dean knows what that feels like first hand.

He can’t imagine what it would be like to lose Cas now.

“Dean,” Cas says after a few moments of silence. He gets up and sits on the bed, raking his fingers through his already wild hair, “Dean, I don’t want to die.”

Dean wants to comfort him, to say something that will soothe Cas’ manic energy, but Castiel beats him to it. He says:

“I have lived for so _long_ , Dean. I have watched humanity bloom, I’ve seen this Earth in its infancy. I walked this very planet before people were even a _thing_. I was ready to die, before. I was always ready to give up my existence for the sake of a cause. I kept on living through death and falling and all that, because it was God’s will. There was a purpose, before. There was always a reason to carry on. I’ve been—we’ve been together for a long portion of your human life. Even before we were—this. You and I. We have know each other for over a decade. A decade, Dean. That’s one fourth of your entire life.

“It’s less than a millionth of my existence for me. I still feel new at this...this--human thing. I don’t even know if I’ll ever get it. If I can understand what being a human is like. Or why you do all those—annoying things that you do. I often feel displaced and inadequate and unfit to deal with all your human— _bullshit._

“But I almost fell today and I realized that I don’t want this to end. I thought I was ready to let it go but I’m _not_ , Dean. Because I don’t _want_ to. I don’t know what your face will look like ten years from now, but I want to find out. I want to be here to see what happens next, what new discoveries humanity makes. I want to see you and Sam be brothers again. Do you understand? I’d rather be stuck here, in this stinking, slow, tedious, _human_ place, because the alternative would be to miss it. To miss _you_. And I don’t want that. I don’t.”

It takes Dean a little over a minute to realise Cas is done. He’s still reeling from the mention of Sam—a taboo topic if ever there was one, but he forces himself to snap out of it.

“Cas,” Dean chokes on the word, relief spreading through his entire body. Cas was having an existential crisis—Dean would call it a midlife crisis if Cas wasn’t closer to _a fuckton billion years old_. When Dean had received that phone call he had expected worse. A curse, at the very least. A vengeful, old friend. Much worse. But this? This he can do. This is something he can deal with. 

Dean makes a move for Cas’ shoulders but his hands take a turn halfway there and end up cupping Cas’ face on both sides.

“It’s okay to be scared,” he says, the words foreign in his mouth, but long overdue. “It’s okay to be afraid to die. We have a shit record with death, man. I am terrified by it, too. But—hey. You’re here now. You’re okay. And I’m _glad_ you don’t want to die.

“Cas, I don’t want you to die either. I want you here. I want to have your stupid face around for the rest of my life. All of it.”

Cas stares back at him with big, uncertain eyes. There’s a secret in his eyes, Dean knows. Cas is even more shit at lying now than he was as an angel. His hands are still shaking.

“You’re okay, Cas,” Dean whispers, trying to figure it out. 

They have a stare-off—the kind they haven’t had in a very long time—for about a minute and a half before Cas is all manic energy again, a rush of movement, and he surges forward and kisses Dean so hard that they both tumble back into the bed and nearly out of it.

Cas kisses Dean with purpose, holds him with unsteady hands grabbing at his clothes, and Dean should know better than to let him get away with it, but he’s tired and the adrenaline of the day is wearing off. He lets Cas turn him on, revive that little spark that had him going through the morning, handle him without protest. 

Cas just feels so wickedly good; the way he trails kisses down Dean’s jaw, his calloused fingers tentative on the soft skin over the rim of Dean’s boxers, and that day old stubble rubbing where Cas knows Dean will like it most. Cas is relentless, now. He keeps Dean down, against the mattress, as he pushes down his pants and underwear and noses the length of him, tearing a dry moan from his throat.

“Cas,” Dean gasps, arching his spine and closing his eyes, like a prayer. He wants to pretend for a moment that they really are okay. That there is nothing hidden behind the blue of Cas’ eyes, that Dean’s not a broken, middle aged man in rehab because he couldn’t even deal with loss the way he was supposed to, that his brother doesn’t hate his guts a thousand miles away. He sighs and lets Cas work him. He’s close, so close, but Cas stops all of a sudden. Cas lets him go with a filthy sound and a whimper.

“Dean,” he croaks. Dean opens his eyes to look at Cas’ miserable expression as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stares pathetically at Dean’s withering erection. “I’m sorry... I don’t think I can do this tonight.”

_Well, shit,_ Dean thinks. _Hello reality._

He breathes, deep, through his nose, and bats away Cas’ attempts at finishing him off with his hands.

“Cas, leave it,” he says when Cas looks so contrite that Dean is this close to allowing it. Instead, he pulls his underwear back up and kicks his pants to the side. “Come here,” he calls, pulling the duvet back.

Cas follows him by stripping his clothes and worming himself beneath the covers and into Dean’s open arms, mindful of his still delicate crotch.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he repeats in a quiet, little voice that gets muffled against Dean’s neck. Dean doesn’t want to think about his still aching dick, so he silences Cas with a poke to his ribs.

“Dude, it’s fine. I’m even going to pretend like you’re not keeping something from me cause I’m _that awesome_ ,” Dean says, without real heat behind it. Cas flinches all the same and Dean is quick to add: “Cas, we’re fine. Look, you had a shitty day and I’m not gonna make it even worse, kay? Shut your damn eyes and go to sleep already.”

Cas doesn’t say anything for a while, and Dean fights the flicker of fear that threatens to consume him over him: If Cas goes into one of his silent spells, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to deal with it very well. 

When Dean thinks he’s not going to get anything more out of this night, he feels Cas rearranging himself on the mattress, so that he can be closer to Dean. Cas sighs against Dean’s skin.

“Thank you,” he whispers, so soft that it might have been Dean’s imagination.

But Cas’ breathing relaxes after that, and Dean puts a hand against his chest, feels the tranquil beat of Cas’ human heart.

\---

 

Dean wakes up from a long, dreamless night far earlier that he should have. There is barely any light in the room, and the streets are quiet; the apartment still but for the distant buzz of the fridge and Cas’ snoring, muffled by the skin on Dean’s shoulder. A quick glance at his phone tells Dean it’s five thirty in the morning, and although he’s still tired he knows he won’t get much more sleep tonight. Cas seems calm, however, and with a soft kiss to Sleeping Beauty’s matted hair he shimmies out of the bed and Cas’ grasp and into the chill of their little bathroom.

He takes a quick shower, giving his neglected cock a stroke or two, but he’s still strung out from the previous night and way too restless to enjoy it. He desists and stands in the tiny shower, face against the string of water softly kissing his cheeks, feeling empty and ready to crumble, hoping against hope that whatever is going on with Cas is something that they have the strength to withstand.

-

The little Chinese market three blocks north opens up at 6 am, and Dean is standing at their door with a smoking cigarette in his mouth when its owner greets him. He walks idly through the aisles and grabs bacon, eggs, and pineapple juice. The tea Cas normally favours has been marked up, but he gets two boxes anyway.

He rides Cas’ bike home, and is halfway into making the largest breakfast he has cooked in a while before the sounds of Cas stirring in bed and waking up even reach him. He puts the bacon on a pan and smiles without even having to see it unfurl: Cas stretching on the bed and stumbling out of it and into the kitchen, his face all scrunched up, his hand absently rubbing at his eyes. A yawn.

“Dean?” Cas asks, almost in time with the Cas in Dean’s head.

“Mornin’, Cas,” Dean says. Cas is talking, and that is a victory by itself. Dean will take it. Dean will take whatever he can get.

He feels more than hears Cas walk towards him, a look of confusion on his face, no doubt.

“What are you making?”

“A breakfast for champions,” he replies. He chances a look over his shoulder, just in time to receive a sleepy kiss on his cheek. The humour is lost on Cas, who nods in understanding and proceeds to drape himself along Dean’s back, letting him go back to minding their food.

Eventually Cas gets into the shower and Dean arranges their kitchen table. He gets the tall pot of fancy Magnolias that had been left unwatered for a few days and throws them away, putting a tall stack of pancakes, cereal, and bacon in its place.

They eat in silence with their ankles touching under the table, letting the soft music from their little ancient radio fill the empty spaces between them. There is something in the air, Dean thinks. Somewhere between him and Cas, and their shared lives, the tiny spark of change.

Dean knows it so well…

\--

Nine o’clock rolls up slowly and sits upon them, and Cas stands to get ready to head to work. Later, Dean will spend the day with Ricardo, helping him plan his little sister’s birthday party, before heading off to another night shift, hoping the pay raise he applies for at the station actually gets through this time.

For now, he’s content to sit and watch Cas go about his leaving-home-for-work routine.

Before Cas leaves, however, he hesitates at the door, giving Dean a thoughtful look.

“What?” asks Dean with trepidation, his voice higher in pitch than he’d like. Cas comes over, holds him close, kisses his cheek. 

“Dean, I think you should call Sam,” he says.

Dean stares at their door, eyes wide in shock, long after Cas closes it behind him.

\--  
tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I finally decided on making a complete work out of this. I lied when I said only a few episodes were missing, but I did mean to say that the last leg of the fic is fast approaching.
> 
> Thank you Beck for your invaluable help in beta-ing this!


	11. Wish you were Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are learned and promises are made, and Cas' family tree is hard to explain to a City Clerk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big BIG thank you to Jamie cliffnotesofanerd, who gave me a great deal of insight on how US’ hospitals and the healthcare system works, this chapter is more or less reality-accurate thanks to her :)
> 
> And to Muse and Ella, who have given me invaluable help, not only beta checking, but shaping this chapter into a more coherent, more readable story ♥ thank you guys!!!
> 
> And of course, to everyone who is still reading this despite my awful timing and the fact that I haven’t posted a new chapter in ages. I hope the length of this one makes up for the lost time! There are more to come :)

I

The other shoe drops sometime in early April, on a Wednesday. As shoe-dropping events go, this one is quite anti climatic.

For Dean, it isn’t a particularly good or bad day. He’s made his rounds and then some: money is tight, and he and Cas have been looking into buying a new TV set, one of those fancy ones that respond to voice control, although Dean secretly fantasizes about getting a new, bigger place. He’s had his pay raise approved, unbeknown to Cas, and has been sticking a few extra hundreds in a tin somewhere in their closet, but overtime never really hurts. It pays well and Dean is happy to drive for cash if the alternative is going back home when Cas isn’t there.

On this Wednesday, he’s just come out of his last round, close to midday, and Allen and he are sharing the last pack of Lucky’s they have, right outside the station’s break room. They are not supposed to smoke here, but if Chief Bill sees them, he will turn a blind eye.

Allen is waxing poetic about his daughter, Jemma, a beautiful dark girl of eight with a big puff of natural hair and mischievous hazel eyes. The pictures he shows Dean make his heart stutter, the warmth in Allen’s voice so evident that Dean can’t help but itch with longing, and wonder—not for the first time—if he and Cas would ever be allowed to have something like that. Something— _real_. Something like a family.

When he feels the phone buzzing in his back pocket, he thinks it may be his therapist, or Adela, or Ricardo, or maybe even Cas. He doesn’t expect the clinical female voice asking for a— _Mr. Dean Winchester_?

\--

Next thing he knows, he’s sitting in a little crowded waiting room with light blue walls and dull fruit-themed paintings hanging on them. The room is loud and quiet at the same time; all its occupants are eerily silent, but the faint yells of a school patio at break-time can be heard from an open window somewhere. Dean’s leg bounces, up and down, up and down, unable to calm down despite the ache on his knee. He’s been here for twenty minutes and already feels like breaking everything within sight. Clenching his teeth, he reels the anxiety in, and focuses on his breathing. Just a few minutes, they said. They would call him once Cas had been stabilized.

\--

Cas is still out of it when a doctor takes Dean into a tiny white room with a bed, a TV set and a fairly comfortable chair. She has a small notebook in her hands, and tries to sound sympathetic, but all Dean can hear is the exhaustion bleeding into her voice. She says “mini-stroke” and “stabilized” and “will keep him overnight, probably”, while Dean nods and stares dumbly at Cas’ prone body lying on the bed, unable to hear past those few words.

He understands now, with absolute clarity, that this is what Cas has been keeping from him all these months. The tiredness in his eyes, his sudden over shifts, the persistent knots on his shoulder muscles. Cas had been dreading this all along, and he had never said a single word to Dean about it.

Dean could just scream.

The doctor calls his name, perhaps in repetition, and Dean blinks and tears his eyes from Cas. She does look tired, but the way she is measuring Dean up, it makes him want to cower in shame. He hadn’t been listening.

“We want to test for blood clots, to be sure he isn’t going to have another stroke any time soon,” she says after a moment. She had asked, before, what his relationship with the patient was. Dean had stuttered on the word ‘partner’. “I’m paging a cardiologist right now,” she continues, “If we’re lucky we can get everything sorted by tomorrow morning so you both can be home by midday.”

Dean continues to nod, dumb, numb.

“A cardiologist,” he repeats.

“Yes. His heart rate was very low,” and without Dean prompting her, she lifts a soft hand and lays it, carefully, on his shoulder, “He will be alright.”

\--

If Dean had had to describe how his life would come tumbling down, sitting on a large chair in a tiny whitewashed room watching Cas groggily try to open a packet of crackers would definitely not be in any way part of said description.

Yet here he is.

The entire day and night went by in a blur: Cas waking up; the nurse, the neurologist, the cardiologist parading in and out of the tiny room while Dean circled idly through the 27 channels the little TV set had to offer. He isn’t sure it’s been 24 hours already, but somewhere along the way a nurse came to let them know Cas would be released sometime that afternoon. The big chair is comfortable as hell, which is a first in his vast bedside experience, but the smells and the sounds and the goddamn goosebumps hospitals give him are all the same.

Cas succeeds in opening the crackers but he’s still dazed and cranky, his movements still slow and lethargic, and manages to spread bread crumbs all over his bed. He looks furious for an entire second, before he fumes and discards the entire pack completely, like he is wrath incarnate, God’s terrible might, Heaven’s oncoming storm. Like he isn’t tangled in white sheets, tubes and needles, beaten by a pack of Original Premiums.

It is so absurd, the way Cas’ light blue hospital gown makes the blue of his eyes stand out. Dean watches him, and he tries not to remember how he tripped on the word  _partner_  the day before. Nobody should be allowed to look this good in a hospital gown, Dean’s mind says, trying to get a grip on itself.  _P-partner._ The loop is deafening. He has been staring at Cas for hours, deaf to his own thoughts, unable to say anything important, and all his stupid brain can focus on is on the goddamn blue of Cas’ eyes, and Dean’s own clumsy, idiot mouth stuttering on the simplest of words.

_P-Partner, I’m his partner._

He remembers how the cardiologist had said  _It was a close call_ , and  _Someone upstairs must really like him_ , the irony of the statement completely lost on her.

It’s so  _not_  funny that Dean can’t help the laughter bubbling from inside.

He laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

At least Cas has the decency to look contrite.

\--

They are let go after a series of tests and a $250 bill, which Dean pays cash.

Cas will need a pacemaker, and the cardiologist promises to push a surgery date for the next week. She will call to schedule, and Cas may need to take it easy for a few days.

It’s just after noon when they reach the Impala, sitting in a crowded lot on a fine, bright day. Cas tries not to stumble and Dean doesn’t go to his rescue when he does. The leather on the seats is hot when they finally get in, the stale air full of everything they haven’t said to each other.

They sit while Dean, high on caffeine and not enough food, fumbles with the car’s keys. There’s a stray dog just outside, trying to pull something to eat out of a half-broken trashcan, and Cas has his eyes fixed on it. Has has often expressed to Dean how much he hates watching stray animals struggle in human cities. Dean often wonders if Cas relates to them, in a way.

Today he’s just unnerved by it. Cas is not a stray anymore.

“Cas,” he says, at the same time Cas says:

“I’m sorry.”

Dean blinks, because Cas is still not looking at him. After a beat, when the engine roars to life, Cas turns to Dean with listless eyes.

“This wasn’t the first time,” he confesses. He knows Dean knows by now. He’s clever enough to know Dean would have figured it out, but Dean appreciates the honesty. “I fainted several times before this one. Twice, recently. The first time was—”

“That day in Manhattan. When I picked you up.”

Cas looks completely unperturbed. He drops Dean’s gaze, nodding with resignation. His lashes cast shadows on his hollow cheeks, and Dean notices for the first time that Cas has lost some weight.

“Jimmy Novak’s father, and his father before that, they all had the same condition. A weak heart,” he continues, his fingers tracing patterns over his faded jeans. Cas’ jeans have stains all over them: he had been stacking Mexican Coke bottles when he lost consciousness— _the ones made with real sugar_ , Mrs. Park’s daughter explained to him on the phone, _the ones that come in bottles made of glass._ One of them cracked  and its contents splashed all over Cas’ blue jeans. They vaguely remind Dean of bloodstains.

“It wasn’t something that ever came up when I was—when I still could fix this. It never occurred to me that I would live in this body long enough for it to matter. I had forgotten about it until that day...”

A horn blows and Dean has been sitting two seconds too long at a green light. A quick glance at the rearview mirror tells him that Cas is sitting ramrod straight, eyes wide and haunted as they stare ahead into the street.

“I didn’t want you to find out,” he adds, his voice unsteady, “I didn’t want any of it to be real.”

Dean’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He was never good at comforting people, let alone someone who was brought into his life. He has had a pretty shitty life—the people around him always suffering for one thing or another, but the last four or five years, they didn’t seem so bad. He thought they were getting better. For once, he was starting to think they  _deserved_  better.

Fingers shaking, he reaches for Cas’ hand still fumbling over his jeans. He grips it tight, tighter than he should, until his knuckles turn white and Cas lets out a deep breath, forces his eyes to meet Dean’s.

“You’re going to be alright,” Dean says. “We’re going to be alright.”

It surprises him how much he means it.

\---

 

II

Cas crawls into bed as soon as they get home. He starts undressing the minute they cross the door into their kitchen, uncovering the marks on his chest where the electrodes stuck to his skin had been monitoring his heart rate. He looks washed out, exhausted; doesn’t even wait for Dean to get into bed with him to clock out.

Dean doesn’t mind. It’s not dark yet, and he feels too restless to sleep, even if he hasn’t been able to lay down for the past two days. He sits next to Cas, leaning down to drop a chaste kiss on his stubbly cheek. Cas sighs with closed eyes and the slope of his shoulder relaxes under their mustard duvet.

They are quiet for the longest of times, Dean sitting on the side of the bed with Cas’ steady breaths as his only company. He looks around for as long as there is light coming from the balcony window. Their little room is cluttered, filled to the brim with the debris of domestic life. Dirty laundry, cigarette butts, an old pot of dry flowers forgotten somewhere between a hair brush and a folder full of photocopies of important documents, like their lease or their tax returns or the medical bills for Dean’s PTSD treatment. There’s dust on the carpet that hasn’t been swept in days and a few well-read books that they both keep sitting on the floor besides the little metal paper bin.

It’s snapshot of what they are now: a washed out middle aged couple living a mediocre, routine life.

The lights are dim through the balcony window: the sun is setting and he’s got a shift tonight.

“I think we should get hitched,” he says to the growing darkness. He would think Cas didn’t hear if not for the sudden stillness of the room. “I know you hate human paperwork and all that shit, but it would actually do us good.”

There’s movement under the duvet, but Cas has still to open his eyes. Dean powers through, tells himself he can’t chicken out of this one.

“I could get you on my insurance plan for—you know. You’re going to need to get the thing checked in the future. Plus, benefits. And I would be your  _legal_ caretaker. If—”

“If the surgery goes wrong.” Cas’ voice is dry, but firm. Dean shrugs.

“Just dotting the ‘I’s here, Cas.”

The quiet is disrupted by the rustle of Cas kicking the sheets off himself as he turns on the bedside lamp. There’s a storm brewing in his eyes when Dean can finally see his face.

“We can’t even  _afford_  this surgery, Dean. Why are you so eager to chain yourself to this—this failing sack of  _meat_.”

“Because you’re the idiot who lives in it. And we  _can_  afford it. Jesus, Cas, I’ll  _make_  us afford it. We stopped the fucking apocalypse, man. What makes you think I won’t figure this out?”

“That is  _exactly_  what concerns me. I don’t want a repeat of last time.”

Cas is dead serious, and Dean knows his mistrust is legitimate, but it’s been  _years_ since last time. He has learned from his mistakes.

“I know that. I’m not that stupid. No supernatural business this time. I’ll get another job. We’ll get a loan. I’ll sell the car if I have to.”

Castiel sighs, positively frustrated, and slams his face against the pillow, petulant and annoyed beyond relief. Dean leans over him and lays the upper half of his body against Cas’ backside, his chin tucked comfortably against the back of Cas’ shoulder. He lets the silence stretch  for a little while.

“So… is that a yes?”

Cas grumbles, but when he turns to look at Dean, his eyes are the brightest Dean has seen them in a long time.

“Yes, Dean. Of course it is.”

\--

Once Cas is completely asleep, a half-formed idea propels Dean to his feet. He knocks on his neighbors’ door and an old lady with a gentle face answers it. Mrs. Liski, who had lost her son and husband three and a half years ago in a plane crash. Cas’ bike had belonged to her son, Klim.

She agrees to check on Cas through the night, and Dean goes straight to the closet in his apartment, blindly reaching between years old flannel shirts and secondhand heavy coats for a little metal tin. Inside it he counts nine hundred and twenty three dollars. He’s tempted to take them all, but he knows Cas’ surgery will be expensive, and his insurance is good for shit, unlike Dean’s.

Shit. They should have done this  _months_  ago. This money, plus a couple thousand dollars they have been saving together, is the extent of their safety net. He bites his lip, considering, and takes two hundred and twenty-three dollars.

He grabs a light coat and heads out.

\--

There’s a little shop a dozen blocks or so from their place where they have all this fancy jewelry. Dean has seen it on his way to the Station several times, and he hopes they open late.

They do.

They are also expensive as hell.

He walks into the shop anyway, telling himself not to lose his nerve. He’s here, he might as well get on with it.

The rings on display are fancy and hideous: this new trend of wearing big, colourful rocks isn’t his taste. He can’t see him, or Cas, wearing anything remotely similar. The prices are discouraging anyway, so there’s that. He pats the wallet in his pocket miserably, knowing what’s in there. All he can think about is: _not good enough._

Why are these damn trinkets so fucking expensive?

The store clerks give him wary looks as he walks through the narrow aisle. He knows he must look a wreck after two days of being stuck at the hospital: a rugged middle aged man in shabby clothes whose hands itch and shake with anxiety. He’d be wary too.

“May I help you, Sir?” a young clerk asks. Dean sighs and turns up the charm.

They go through several models of simple plain bands, but Dean is bored with the specs of each, and he knows Cas doesn’t get the whole precious metal thing. Gold, silver, copper. It’s all the same to him. The real deal ones are overpriced and the cheaper ones are all made with a bad combination of alloys. Dean’s skin has developed allergies with time: his skin will turn green under some metals, and Cas has a tendency to lose almost anything smaller than a rock the size of his fist.

He doesn’t need to be fancy. He can’t  _afford_  to be fancy. That’s not who he and Cas are, either way.

\--

On Friday morning, after his shift, Dean waits for the flower shop (the good one) to open. He has a cigarette in his mouth and a new, welcome weight in his pocket. A small black box, complimentary, with two simple titanium bands with black rims.

He takes home the best smelling nards he has ever bought.

\--

 

III

They apply for a marriage license on Monday. The procedure is relatively simple, but the office is packed. There are several other couples in line before them and the close quarters make Dean feel caged and nervous. He didn’t expect to feel so jumpy at the City Clerk’s Office, keeps telling himself this is just paper work,  _no big deal_ , but despite his earlier conviction, he feels out of place. They are the only male-male couple and a lady across the hall keeps throwing  _glances_  their way. Dean tries hard to remember the calming exercises his therapist taught him, but to no avail. God, he would kill for a cigarette, but smoking indoors is not permitted.

Thankfully, Cas takes everything in stride, with the intensity he reserves for the really important stuff, such as watching the History Channel or completing difficult crossword puzzles. The red tape usually annoys him, mostly, but he looks like he’s doing fine, which Dean is secretly really grateful for. One of the slots they have to fill in asks for parents’ name and last names, and Dean is almost tempted to convince Cas to list “God” as his dad.

“I don’t understand why we have to apply for this license if we’re going to have to return tomorrow to get married properly anyway. This is very inconvenient,” Cas protests, loud enough that the employee at the front desk glares at him from her seat.

Dean doesn’t answer. He fears he might throw up if he attempts to talk. The sudden realisation that they are going to need a witness hits him like a punch to the face. Not the fact that  _he_  and  _Cas_ , former heavenly warrior, are sitting in line in a suffocating office in City Hall to get  _married_ , but the screaming, gaping void in the shape of a person that hasn’t talked to him in over five years.

He never believed he would live to settle down and get married, but in the few feverish occasions he allowed himself to fantasize about it, Sam was always a part of the equation. One way or the other, he never imagined anybody else would be there to sign their name along his.

And now he was getting hitched and Sam didn’t even  _know_  about it. He wasn’t even sure if Sam was aware that Dean and Cas were together.  _Partners_. That Cas was family in a way Dean had never allowed him to be when the three of them were hunting together. That Dean had learned to  _let go_. That he would call Sam in a heartbeat if he knew it was okay to do so.

So much baggage has accumulated between them, and the last time they saw each other had been a complete mess. They had said words, ugly words. Cas had bolted and Dean had been angry and broken, and Sam had been too tired to let him explain himself. They had closed the gates of Heaven and Hell and killed ten thousand innocent people in exchange. An entire city left in ruins by their own incompetence, because Dean couldn’t let go of Sam. Because he didn’t  _want_ to.

Of course it had been an accident. Neither knew what their refusal to give up on the other would cause, but after the damage was done, no filial bond could take that pressure. It caved. Their entire world caved under the guilt.

In the aftermath, Dean’s knee had been broken in several pieces that Cas couldn’t fix, maybe  _wouldn’t_  fix, even if he could. Even if he hadn’t lost his grace and his celestial family to the Winchesters’ own brand of selfishness. Cas could barely hold Dean’s eyes, those days, and Dean couldn’t blame him. It took him less than a week to take off on his own, leaving Dean and Sam and their growing pile of dirty laundry on their own.

Sam didn’t last that much longer.

Dean can’t remember what their last fight had been about, but it didn’t really matter. They had said things that were hard to come back from. Sam had had enough and asked Dean never to talk to him again. That the only thing they both deserved was to be as good as dead; that all they ever brought to each other and the people around them was suffering and misery and pain. Dean had said some things too, but he can’t remember them as vividly as everything Sam had said. The slamming of the door is particularly clear in his mind. The last he saw of Sam was the tense line of his shoulders and the back of his head as he left Dean behind to rot in a decrepit motel with a pair of crutches and a cast on his leg.

“Dean,” Cas says. Right. New York, City Hall. There’s a small warning in Cas’ voice. Or perhaps it’s worry; Dean can’t tell. “It’s our turn.”

\--

The marriage ceremony is on the very next day. Dean insists that they wear suits, the same they wore for their date all those months ago, and Cas is happy to comply. He talks to Dean about how marriage traditions changed over the centuries while they dress, about how he had listened to the stories about epic human love from other more intrepid angels, and how he had come down to earth to oversee them as soon as he had been cleared to do so. He tells Dean about a time before marriage was a controlled institution, when the word didn’t even exist, and the binding of two souls was done in secret, an intimate communion of lovers seeking to promise themselves to each other for eternity. He tells Dean in another time, on another land, that they wouldn’t have had to apply for a marriage license, because their union would have been considered holy long ago. Dean’s ears burn and he kisses Cas softly when he’s done with his tales of old.

You see, Cas wears the goofiest smile and his heart on his sleeve. He carries the nards Dean brought with him, their beautiful smell following them around, and puts one in the breast pocket of his ill-fitting suit. He lets his hair comb itself and fumbles with his blue tie, unable to properly tie it, even after all these years. His eyes crinkle when Dean shows him the titanium bands.

They make quite a pair: Dean, wrinkled but still gorgeous, tired but perfectly groomed, and Cas who is still a little off-kilter, still wears a human body like he isn’t sure what to do with it, but is beautiful in his own way.

There is no dramatic gesture to accompany their ceremony. They don’t hold hands and nobody cries into their sleeve. Their only guests are Allen, his daughter Jemma and his wife, Tish, who takes a million pictures and is the only one to hug Dean within an inch of his life. They sign as witnesses and Dean tries not to think about all the people who aren’t here. He knows Ricardo will be angry at him. He knows Jack and Elsa and Charlie would have loved to come, but if he keeps this small, if he misses them all, he can forget about the one absence he regrets the most.

\--

After a quick lunch at their usual Mexican restaurant, they all bid their goodbyes, and Dean takes Cas home. He looks exhausted, still not fully recovered from his near death experience, and the day’s event are catching up on Dean as well. He tells Cas he’s too old for this kind of excitement, but the truth is he feels melancholy and needs to be alone.

He drops Cas on their bed and takes a walk.

\--

Later, somewhere in Seattle an answering machine beeps, ready to record a message long due.

_“Hey Sammy, it’s Dean. Don’t hang up. Hear me out, okay? This ain’t a social call... It’s about Cas. He had a uh—heart attack last week. Yeah, unbelievable, I know. I know you’ve talked to him so I don’t know if you knew he was having problems but, ah. Well, it’s bad. He’s getting surgery on Thursday and, uh. I thought you might want to know. He asked me to call you several times and I—uh. Look, I don’t want to overstep. I know you don’t—I get it. I’m not asking you to—I just wanted you to know. Shit. I can’t do this over the phone. I’m just—we’re okay. I mean, besides the surgery thing. We’re getting better. I’m seeing a therapist—haha. Isn’t that_ hilarious _? I’m trying to let go, Sam. But I—I miss you. And all these years, it’s been a long time to— what I want to say is that if you still want us—if you still want me out of your life, I will respect that. But Cas is—just, give him a call, okay? He’s terrified. Hell,_ I’m _terrified, I’ll admit to that. Uh. Well my time is running out… I. I really hope you’re doing fine, Sammy. Take care. Oh, right. Cas and I. We uh—we got hitched—married. I guess he’s your brother-in-law now—”_

\--

_To be continued..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don't know, you can find me on tumblr at guusana as well.


End file.
